Painting a Canvass
by Morganel
Summary: Seb likes a lot of things; the custom cigarettes Jim provides, being painted with love bites and bruises, painting the love bites and bruises, negotiating...It's a pleasurable winter holiday. Experiment with-possibly genderbent take on Sebastian Moran-Morgan Sebastian, my first attempt at writing these two. SebxJim and hints of SebxMolly


**A/N: I made a version of Sebastian Moran, because I've seen a lot of gender bent fanart for Sherlock and the name for this character wasn't leaving me alone. I hope you like this, it's my first attempt with this character and I really like her.**

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She's wired for the first time in a long time, and she's enjoying it. She's cleared the twelve blocks from the kill sight and dropped her kit into the boot of the car. She had time to kill, so she's leaning against the stone fence at a big park three blocks away with some bushes behind her. She's in a mood and felt like rolling her own cigarette; it's systematic and that's what she needs right now, the step by step, elongating the euphoric feeling that's coursing through her right now. She takes a long pull and out of the corner of her eye a cop car stops at the top of the block. A copper gets out and a woman approaches him, motioning down at her. The cop nods and starts walking toward her. She looks the opposite way.

"Ma'am, put out the joint." He says cautiously. He sees the fat lip she's sporting, and the black eyes. She doesn't react; instead, she takes another pull, and sends a trio of smoke rings floating through the cold air.

"Ma'am, I said—"

She turns looking surprised, "Oh, you're talking to me? M'afraid that woman is mistaken. I'm not high, and this isn't Mary-Jane." She says shrugging her shoulders, and bringing the cigarette to her lips once more. The cop frowns, and eyes her incredulously.

"That's not regular tobacco, what's your name?" He says, and she smiles in a near patronizing manner.

"Good nose, orange tea flavoured tobacco, name's Sebby." She says, raising her hand in cheers.

"You're sure about that?" He asks, she nods raising a brow.

"As sure as I am that two and two makes four." She says, finishing her self-rolled cigarette. She digs into her coat pocket and taps out her usual custom packed cigarette. She holds it up for the cop to see.

"Custom, m'dad got me to appreciate real tobacco, kiddies are just fine." She sticks it between her lips and lights it, sucking in a decent amount of smoke before exhaling. The cop gets a whiff of it and nods.

"A'right, ma'am, happy Christmas, pardon the misunderstanding." He tips his hat and starts back to his car.

"Tah, happy Christmas." She says, turning her back and walking through the park, taking extra care to smoke a considerable amount as she passes the woman who called the coppers on her.

It's late when he gets in but he knows she's still up by the wafting smell of mint tobacco leaking through the door to the den. He's already shed his coat and jacket and opens the door to meet a sight he's not altogether unfamiliar with. Long bare legs sticking out from the back of the lazy boy chair facing the fire.

"Took your time, didn't you?" She says, he doesn't move just yet; listens as she snaps her lighter, watches as an impressive cloud of smoke rises from the individual seated in the chair.

"I was making an investment, Seb." He says finally walking over and peering over the head of the chair. He smirks, and his eyes dance over her bare form, slumped low in the seat, legs crosses. Her arm stretches out and she taps her cigarette into a lone ashtray on the tiny side table next to her chair.

"I see Molly wasn't delicate with you." He says, she smirks, looking up at him.

"No." She says lazily, "but is she ever?" She looks up at him, licking at her lips, he just looks at the angry red love bites on her neck, breasts, tummy...the hand marks on her hips...

"Promised not to paint her canvass, she made up for it _very _well." She says, eyes fluttering closed for a moment at the recollection.

"Couldn't paint on her?" He asks, running his fingers over her neck and shoulders.

"Hm, poor thing, wanted to impress your Sherlock Holmes for Christmas, so I could only paint what the dress hides." She pouts a bit, taking a long pull from her cigarette.

"Never did get the chance to learn her for myself." He muses.

"I don't like to share, James." She reminds. A breath of a laugh escapes him, "good thing I wasn't really trying then." He says quietly and goose bumps rise on her skin, he likes it, he moves, leaning in and trails his lips over her shoulder. "I don't like sharing either, but I share you." He says, moving back completely.

"Suppose that's because of your _investments._ But _I_ can't complain, no, because I've got two people, who know exactly what I want." She says, cocking a brow at him, goading him. He knows she's gone through on a hit today, sees it in her eyes, how wired she is. He does _indeed_ know what she wants, what she always wants. A fight. "Though, I guess I'm being a bit of a hypocrite," she pouts, "considering, I'm letting Mol go after your detective." He laughs, and she lifts her cigarette to her lips once more.

"Yes, but you know it's futile." He hums; a smile breaks out over her face, all teeth.

"I do." She says. Sucking in a final pull and dropping the cigarette into the ashtray. She reaches up and yanks him down by his collar into a forceful kiss; he chuckles darkly, and bites at her already swollen lip. She growls, letting the smoke waft around them. He bites her lip hard enough to make it bleed and moves back. She's exactly how he wants her, pupils big, cheeks flushed, riled up.

"Merry Christmas, James Moriarty." She says, biting at her bleeding lip.

"And to you, Morgan Sebastian." He says, before melding their mouths once more and revelling in the wholly appropriate taste of iron that accompanies it.


End file.
